


Winter's Burn

by Girlblunder



Category: The Huntsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girlblunder/pseuds/Girlblunder
Summary: An alternate version of how Sara came to be a huntsman - and many things after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NovakFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovakFan/gifts).



> Requested by Novak for "They do exist!" Thursdays. Ordinarily this would be ficlet length, but I got quite swept away.
> 
> There is a lot of violence in this, so please be warned.

* * *

Sara doesn’t remember a time when blood and death weren’t her constant companions. Her father had been lost during her fifth winter to a raid, and by her tenth winter, it’s only her and her mother left.

Sometimes she mouths the names of her oldest sister and two brothers when she’s certain her ma is sleeping. She doesn’t want to forget them, but already their faces are fading from her memory. It’s as terrifying as every time the riders find their small village, the men with their gnashing teeth and howling voices proclaiming the service done in the name of their king. There is no king here in the wild lands of the north, but many men crowning themselves as such. She fears them as much as she hates them.

Fear lives in her heart so long that, eventually, she becomes numb to everything.

Well, nearly everything.

Her ma is all she has left, but she knows that’s something she won’t have forever, either. Ma is soft eyes and work-roughened hands, and when Sara has trouble sleeping, her weary voice will accompany Sara into the dark.

Sara loves her mother more than anything in the world.

When the day the riders come and don’t stop coming and Sara is just a hair’s breadth away from Ma, she knows a split second before she’s hauled onto the horse that now she’s lost that last little something too.

She doesn’t cry, can’t cry like some of the other children next to her. Fewer cry than she thinks will, but then she realizes she’s not the only one that’s lived in blood and death. A chill settles around her heart.

Sara is truly numb now - except when a boy across the way catches sight of the last little bit of her ma that she has. The medallion is tucked away out of sight. That piece of Ma is for no one but herself.

The small metal circle is painfully cold against her skin, but Sara still presses it tighter to her chest.

*

The arrival to the - very frozen - castle isn’t what Sara had expected at all.

A queen isn’t what Sara had expected.

Her legs are stiff from disuse, the cramped space of the prison cart not lending much in the way of movement. She stumbles as they’re shuffled into the keep, but manages to keep herself upright.

A queen, cold and regal, is _not_ what Sara had expected.

As the woman speaks, Sara tries not to react. The queen says things eerily similar to what Sara has been thinking on the long journey from what used to be her village. Love is a cruel trick meant to be played on the foolish.

Even as the chill in Sara’s heart agrees partially with what the self-proclaimed queen says, something keeps Sara from totally agreeing - a warmth, small and round, hidden and pressed against her sternum.

The queen is perhaps somewhat different from the would-be kings that have taken and taken from Sara, but Sara won’t forget what this queen has taken from her, too.

The queen’s voice rises, making Sara glance back.

It’s funny, Sara thinks, how the snow queen’s eyes glimmer like ice - her cheeks are flushed, and it’s clear the pale monarch is passionate about what she claims.

Sara’s stomach twists when she hears _training_ and then her heart is thumping and she has to stop herself from giving the queen a wide-eyed look.

*

When the queen had first asked for loyalty, Sara had wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. She doesn’t train for the queen that had taken the last something she’d had. As weeks pass the monarch seems a ghost, hardly seen as Sara and the others have weapons pushed into their hands.

Training is fierce and harsh, and it lights a fire in Sara she didn’t know she had. Her blood pumps furiously through her veins every time she faces an opponent (real or otherwise).

Every time Sara excels, becomes the best at something, her mind is flooded with what ifs.

The fading glimpses of her family flicker behind her eyelids. If she had had this, she considers as she bests everyone in hand to hand combat for the nth time, she could have saved them.

She could have saved them all.

Sara has a sort of bitter understanding of the queen then, as she bares her teeth and throws a dagger at a wooden target.

It’s only in losing everything that she has gained the power to protect anything.

The queen has nothing and everything, just like Sara does now. She spares only the briefest thought to wonder what the queen might have been like before.

Sara doesn’t feel anything like loyalty to her.

Not yet.

But the queen has taken - and given.

*

Sara has seen seventeen winters when she has her first real battle. When her swords dance thirstily through the waves of men bearing the sigil of one of the many supposed kings of the north, Sara finally understands that blood and death were always her destiny.

She’d lost her father to this king’s men, and Sara could laugh at how glorious it feels to cut them down and kick her boots against their blood spattered bodies.

Until--

Until her boot moves and she doesn’t see a man. He bears no resemblance to her youngest brother, Sara knows, but her heart clenches and she mouths _Ewan_ all the same.

But Sara doesn’t have time to hesitate or mourn, because then another sword is coming her way, and she screams as she twirls and drives her sword through the gap in his armor under his arm.

Ewan is gone, just like everyone else, and these men have taken from her just as much as the rest.

After the battle is done with, the field littered with half as many of her battle-kin as enemies, Sara is numb again.

She sees the queen again for the first time since she can remember some time after.

Queen Freya has made a point to check in on them from time to time, of course, distant and cold as ever, but Sara rarely truly looks at her for fear of betraying her internal conflict.

Today, though, she peers into the queen’s eyes as their battle commander hands over the crown of the false king. Hate and something else burns in Sara from her position at the front of the formation, but the queen is distracted by the circle of iron that had once been a crown.

“It is done, then?” the queen asks dispassionately.

“Yes, my Queen,” the commander says with a bowed head.

“Good.” The crown is taken absently, and then the queen is gone again.

Sara wonders if the far-flung memory of pink cheeks had been an illusion. Queen Freya doesn’t feel passionately about this; in fact, she seems as numb as Sara feels.

It isn’t until Sara’s third battle that she finally comes to understand the truth. Queen Freya truly feels that taking the land in this matter is her duty - their duty.

That night, Ma’s medallion feels like it’s going to burn a hole in Sara’s chest.

*

As years pass and false kings fall, Sara becomes accustomed to her life.

It is her duty to Queen Freya and the lands of the north to liberate the people - be it through death or newborn fealty. Freya is no false monarch, driven only by her cold understanding of how life takes and takes.

Under Queen Freya, there is no clawing in the dirt at night wondering if this will be the night another army will raid her village.

The Queen protects her own, fierce and frigid, and Sara does as she’s ordered.

When their commander falls, Sara, Eric, and Tull, become the de facto leaders. They’ve been around the longest, and are the best of the huntsmen.

Perhaps the mantle might be Sara’s alone, but it’s not something she wishes. She is the best fighter, but Tull is the most loyal. She is the best killer, but Eric has a way with their battle-kin that Sara does not.

They always present the tokens of their victory to the Queen together.

Except, there is no triumph as they hand off such tokens to the ever-solemn Queen. Sara feels that things are better this way. They do not fight for glory, and the Queen doesn’t take crowns for pleasure.

*

War is a tiring thing, even with the fire burning in Sara’s veins. Her duty keeps her going, but sometimes she feels the weight of every drop of blood she’s spilled, feels as if she’ll drown in it.

Sometimes she’ll have a tumble with Eric or Tull, but it is little more than a way to keep herself from drowning.

She doesn’t worry about breaking Queen Freya’s rule; the ability to love has long fled Sara. The only warm reminder she has of it is hanging around her neck on a bit of leather.

So, perhaps, she’s surprised when she receives a summons one midday. The next battle is still being planned and plotted as supplies are gathered. The march will be the longest as they seek out the last false king of the north.

“Your Majesty,” Sara says as she bows before the Queen. “You called for me?” She isn’t nervous, though it is the first time that she can remember being summoned alone.

“Yes.”

Sara keeps her head bowed, though the Queen’s voice seems peculiar to her ears.

“Rise,” comes the gentle command.

She does as she’s told, but there’s an odd tingle in her fingertips. It’s the first time she’s heard anything but indifference in her Queen’s voice in a very long time.

To her surprise, Queen Freya is not at her throne, but at a smaller table off to the side.

“Sit,” the Queen says, her hand gesturing to an icy chair on one side of the table.

Sara does, though she shifts uneasily in her seat.

The icy table top begins to grow, and as Sara watches, a pristine chess board and pieces form seemingly out of thin air.

“You know how to play,” Queen Freya says in a way that sounds more like a question.

It makes Sara frown; _of course_ she knows how to play. Each huntsman has learned tactics as well as combat, chess being one of the many ways it had been instructed.

She pauses and considers that, maybe, the Queen is _asking_ her to play.

Sara straightens and reaches for a blue pawn. It’s a shade similar to the Queen’s eyes, she thinks as she glances up and catches the hint of a smile on Queen Freya’s face. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Then we shall play.” The Queen presses a pale fingertip to her chin, and then reaches out for an equally pale pawn.

Sara keeps watching, wondering if she’d imagined the beginnings of the smile.

“You’ll lose if you don’t pay attention,” the Queen warns even as her gaze remains settled on the chess board.

Sara isn’t sure why, but her cheeks flush at the admonishment. She shifts again in her chair and makes the next move.

*

“I used to play chess with my sister,” the Queen says on one of the many days Sara finds herself summoned to do just that.

It makes Sara’s fingers twitch against the knight she’s just taken possession of. “I didn’t know you had a sister, Your Majesty.”

Something akin to warmth flickers over the Queen’s face, and then it’s gone and Queen Freya’s face seems harder than before. “She used to let me win all the time. It wasn’t until she stopped holding back that I finally learned something.”

The jagged edges of the knight bite against Sara’s fingertips.

“You’re not letting me win, are you, Sara?”

Sara is fully conscious of her cheeks flushing, her heart pounding as furiously as if she were in battle - but it’s not because she’s been caught. “Not every time, Your Majesty,” she admits through stiff lips. She swallows.

She’s never heard Queen Freya say her name.

“Don’t let me win, Sara,” the Queen says as she examines the board.

Sara is glad the Queen is so distracted, still feeling out of sorts though not understanding why.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She hesitates. “Your Majesty, why have you asked me here?” It’s something she’s wondered many times.

“You are the best of my huntsmen. Do not _let_ me win.”

There’s more to it, Sara’s sure, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she moves a rook to take one of the Queen’s knights.

When she looks up, Queen Freya is almost-smiling again.

*

The weeks of preparation finally pay off, and before Sara knows it, the night before their long march arrives.

An unusual restlessness rises in her, something that isn’t assuaged by bedding Tull. It’s like the anticipation of her first battle, but not.

Sara isn’t sure why the Queen’s summons doesn’t surprise her.

“You sent for me, my Queen,” she murmurs as she tries to hide the jittering of her hands against her leather pants.

There’s silence from Queen Freya, though Sara can hear the faint tinkling of the ice beads on her gown as she moves.

“Are you well, Huntsman?”

Sara clenches her teeth at the address. She’s gotten used to hearing her name from her Queen’s lips - sometimes even imagining a measure of affection in the inflection that Sara knows the Queen doesn’t feel.

“I am fit for battle,” Sara manages to say with her eyes still averted.

“That is not what I asked, Huntsman.” Queen Freya’s voice is sharp, but then she pauses and continues in a softer voice. “Sara.”

The tingle that ripples down Sara’s spine is unmistakeable. She takes a silent, shuddering breath to brace herself. “I believe so. I am simply in a queer mood.”

“And Tull could not abate this mood? What of Eric?” The sharpness of Queen Freya’s voice is back again.

Sara swallows and finally allows herself to look at Freya. It’s dark in the castle interior, but Sara had not dared bear a torch in Freya’s presence. She’d noticed her liege’s aversion to fire, and would not intentionally cause Freya such distress.

There’s a faint azure glow around them, and Sara imagines that Freya has enchanted some of her ice to provide a measure of light. At least, she thinks so. She finds herself unable to look away from the hard blue of Freya’s eyes.

“Tull could not; neither would Eric be able to,” she says, almost in a trance. A slow understanding seeps into her, and she bows her head at the treasonous nature of it.

“I have one rule, Sara. You know it as well as I do.”

Sara’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips. No, she wouldn’t call it love. Not...it’s not love. Her ma’s medallion feels heavy against her chest.

“Does Tull feel the same? Or Eric?”

“What?” Sara’s head jerks up. “I do not--no. They are my battle-kin, Queen Freya, nothing more.”

The ice beads on the Queen’s dress click loudly as she strides forward, only stopping until she’s standing right in front of Sara.

“You do not love them?” Freya asks, one hand rising and tilting Sara’s head up to an almost uncomfortable angle.

Sara makes a point to keep eye contact. “No, my Queen.”

Freya’s eyes narrow, her eyes trailing over Sara’s features and down the column of her neck. “Your heart gives you away,” she murmurs as she stares at Sara’s furiously pounding pulse.

“Th-that’s not--” and if the situation weren’t so potentially dire, she might laugh. “It’s battle lust,” she manages around her tangled tongue.

If Sara had any doubts before, they’re gone. Because Freya is not only close, but _touching_ her. The burning in her chest and abdomen are treason, the hot need that urges her to step closer and closer to do something terrible, treason against both herself and Freya.

Part of Sara has held on to the tiny smoldering fragments of hate she had first felt, but when she reaches for them, there’s a different kind of searing feeling left altogether.

“Lust?” Freya sounds puzzled, oddly fascinated. Her fingers relax and then she’s cupping her hand against Sara’s neck, her thumb rubbing gently against Sara’s thrumming pulse point. “I think I remember what that feels like.”

Sara clenches her hands into fists at her sides, trying to ignore how tantalizingly warm Freya’s breath is against her skin. She’d always thought everything about Freya must be cold, but Sara doesn’t feel the telltale signs of her Queen’s frost.

“It burns,” Freya adds in the barest of whispers.

Sara imagines that she sways closer for just a moment, but then the feel of frost does prick against her neck and Queen Freya is returning to her throne.

“Ride well,” Queen Freya says. “I expect to see you return from this battle.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Sara dips her head, glad for the dismissal.

Her body is humming with want, but she will not seek out Tull or Eric.

***

The weeks her huntsmen are away pass like the murmur of a distant spring for Freya. Time means little to her, as does nearly everything else. All Freya knows is that she is close to her goal after so much sitting and waiting.

As much as the land had needed to be wrangled under control, she’d never had a taste for bloodshed. She could do it, but she didn’t like it.

She considers it a good thing that her huntsmen feel the same, though she knows years of war have taken their toll on them. Once, Freya had thought of some of them as her children, but she’s not lost her mind so completely that she doesn’t understand that parts of them probably still hate her.

As necessary as her task has been, perhaps Freya hates herself. Just a bit.

It’s difficult for her to understand. She feels very little to begin with these days.

There’s a distant clamor, and she knows without summoning for her feather mask that her huntsmen have returned.

She smiles for a moment. Of course they’ve been victorious.

Freya raises a hand and the small table and chairs begin to take shape. Perhaps she will ask Sara for a game tonight.

When Tull and Eric approach her throne, Freya doesn’t react.

The hands that grip the ring of iron are stained with blood, but Freya easily reaches out to accept the token. “Where is Sara?” she asks when neither of them says anything.

Tull and Eric exchange watery glances.

“She fell in battle, My Queen,” Tull declares in a rough voice.

“Ah.” Something flickers briefly in Freya’s chest, but she doesn’t know what it is. She’s already acting out of character, never commenting on the absence of any of her huntsman before. Still, the something has her mouth opening again. “Where is her body?”

“She is with the healers,” Eric says in a voice that cracks. “Not quite dead yet, but they said it’ll be any time now.”

His eyes are red-rimmed, and Freya knows she should be upset at his obvious display of emotion.

Freya blinks slowly. “You are dismissed.”

She isn’t insulted that they leave in a hurry, though part of her dimly wonders if they feel too much for Sara.

It isn’t until Freya’s attention wanders downward that she sees the iron crown, ornate and heavy, has been completely frozen through. She drops it in surprise, watching as it shatters against the dark stone of the floor.

“It burns,” she murmurs as she stares at the remnants of the crown.

***

“You nearly disobeyed my wishes.”

The voice is distant, and Sara frowns as she tries to open her eyes. Her side is a swath of pain and fire, and she could swear that she’d been staring up at the looming darkness of death’s door only moments before.

“I am disappointed, Sara.”

Sara’s efforts are renewed at the familiar voice, and then a moment later she’s sluggishly blinking her eyes open. Her throat works for a moment. “I returned, didn’t I?” Her voice is an awkward croak and she swallows again.

Freya raises a hand, and then she’s gently brushing something cool against Sara’s lower lip.

The coldness is pressed against it again, and then Sara is carefully opening her mouth. She could almost laugh; it’s a shard of ice, oddly pleasant as it begins to melt in her mouth.

Freya’s expression is unreadable, her fingertips resting over Sara’s heart as she stares somewhere past Sara’s face. “You didn’t present me with your token of victory.”

Though Sara’s mind is foggy, she’s beginning to realize the absurdity of the moment - surely, she is imagining her Queen’s presence. “My apologies. I would present you with anything your heart desires.”

“My heart?” Freya tilts her head curiously.

“Yes.”

Freya’s fingertips idly trace a pattern against her shoulder. “And what does your heart desire, Sara?”

The words stick in Sara’s throat before she can even think to say them. She should never say them out loud. “Nothing.”

“Do not lie to your queen,” comes the low warning.

But Freya’s voice is unusually kind, and her gaze is soft.

Still, Sara finds herself unable to speak. Her chest heaves, and then she’s reaching a shaking hand for Freya’s.

Freya doesn’t move as Sara’s fingertips brush hers, though when Sara carefully takes it into her own and raises it to her mouth, her lips part.

Sara presses a single chaste kiss to the back of Freya’s hand.

“Oh, no. No,” Freya says as she pulls her hand away. Sara’s eyes close. “You mustn’t, Sara. You--”

Sara’s eyes open again when Freya’s voice catches--and then breathing is difficult because there are silent tears trickling down her Queen’s cheeks.

“You mustn’t love me, Sara,” Freya whispers through trembling lips. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkle in the low candlelight.

“I’m sorry,” Sara says though she knows it’s probably a death sentence. Her breathing eases, finally feeling a peace she isn’t aware she’s been seeking since before she’d been taken from her village.

Fresh tears drip down Freya’s cheeks. “So am I.”

Sara doesn’t move as Freya’s hand returns to its place over her heart. The cold almost burns in its intensity.

Then something wet is dropping over her chest, and Sara inhales a shaky breath through her nose because the light is blotted out around her and Freya’s soft lips are pressed against her own.

 _Do not let me win_ , Sara suddenly remembers when the kiss ends and Freya’s still leaning over her. There is no coldness over her chest; if anything Freya’s fingertips are scalding against her skin as they trace her collarbone.

“What’s this?” Freya asks after a moment, tugging at the dark leather string until the silvery medallion can be seen in the flickering candlelight.

A smile stretches Sara’s face. “It’s yours, my Queen. My token of victory.”

Freya looks at her a moment and then glances away. Her cheeks are pink again.

“I shall expect you to present it to me properly when you’re completely well again.”

The orange-yellow glow against the medallion makes Sara suck in a sharp breath.

“You may blow out the candles if they bother you.” Sara wants to pinch herself for long it’s taken her to realize.

“No, I,” Freya abruptly stands and folds her hands together in front of herself. “Get better soon, Sara.”

“Yes, Freya,” Sara whispers as Freya turns to go.

Freya freezes at the threshold to the door, her shoulders hunching briefly. “I will expect your token in a timely fashion.”

She half turns back so that she can look at Sara out of her periphery.

Sara grins. Though small, Freya is smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Freya's perspective, and a little more of Sara's. :)

* * *

Freya watches Sara as the days, then weeks pass. Not in person, of course, but through a snow owl she’s conjured for just such occasions.

Always, the truth of Sara’s feelings weighs on her. Love is forbidden by Freya’s own words, and yet her mind will not settle on whether or not she should banish her favorite Huntsman.

And so Freya observes and considers, waits and ponders.

The spring that nearly brings Sara’s demise passes, and then the huntsmen are left taking advantage of the mild summers of her land with more training and sparring.

When Sara trains she’s like a banked and controlled fire; Freya imagines that fire bursting into life on the battlefield, strong and potent and only just barely controlled. She’s convinced that’s exactly the fire that’s helped carry them to victory in reclaiming the lands of the north from would-be kings.

Sometimes that fire reminds Freya a little of the Ravenna she’d known in her youth.

Always, Freya remembers how much that fire hurts.

Still, Freya watches.

*

“As you requested, my Queen,” Sara murmurs with a bowed head and both hands extended.

The pendant Freya had glimpsed before is cradled carefully in Sara’s palms.

Freya accepts it curiously, contemplating the warm metal against her skin. Her thumb traces the design out of reflex. “I accept your token.” She pauses and allows her eyes to trace Sara’s figure. “You were abed a long while. I trust you are fully recuperated?”

She waits placidly for a response, like usual already knowing the answer.

Sara finally looks up, her cheeks lightly flushed. “Nearly, my Queen. I am sorely out of shape from my time with the healers.”

Freya isn’t sure why, but the look is unsettling. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, hiding the movement by beginning a slow walk around Sara. “I wouldn’t know it to look at you, Sara.”

She doesn’t miss the way Sara stiffens, shoulders tensed and hands clenched into fists at her sides. Freya feels a mild pang of disappointment at the thought that she’s scared Sara, but then she notices the shaky quality to Sara’s breathing - and Freya remembers what Sara’s lust looks like.

It’s curiosity that keeps her moving around Sara. She stops when she’s facing Sara’s back and then steps closer.

She’d watched Sara through all the stages of recovery, the hours prone followed by the hours uncomfortably shuffling around the castle, then followed by the days of slow and pained training. She’d seen the improvement in Sara’s movements, had seen the stiffness caused by the healed wound in Sara’s side slowly easing.

“How long will it take you to return to your full capacity?” Freya inquires, one hand rising to rest against Sara’s freshly healed side.

Sara jolts at the touch but otherwise doesn’t move.

“Not long.” Sara’s voice tight.

Freya splays her hand wider, pressing it closer to Sara’s warmth. She knows power, wields it easily though it’s not something she ever truly wanted for herself.

There’s power in the way Sara minutely shifts into her touch, in the way Sara’s head just turns ever so slightly back toward her. Freya can nearly remember what it’s like to be intoxicated. This power is confoundedly appealing, but Freya knows that fire leads to destruction.

“Good,” she murmurs and steps back. “That will be all.”

As Sara executes a curt bow and retreats, Freya comes to the realization that she doesn’t have the strength to banish Sara. Who knows what could happen to her in other lands, even with her extreme capability in combat.

No, banishment will not do - at least not a formal one.

Freya decides that their days of chess are over. It’s best for Sara’s sake, and perhaps her Huntsman could remember how cruel and unforgiving love could be and be cured.

She frowns at the feeling of discomfort that stirs in her stomach before pushing all such thoughts away.

*

It takes Sara all of a week to understand that she’s been quietly banished from the queen’s presence. The moment she understands a lump forms in her throat, and it takes her hours of grueling training in the midday sun to swallow it down. Their twice-weekly chess games (while her duties don't have her away from the castle) are a thing of the past.

She’d known that her feelings were anathema to the queen’s wishes, but she could no more stop them than she could pluck the moon from the sky.

By the time the sun sets she resigns herself to having lost Queen Freya’s favor. It could have been worse. Execution and banishment have always been the understood punishments for treason, and it’s a miracle that the queen has not pursued either.

Absently, Sara raises a hand to her lips. She’d been delirious as she’d lain on her deathbed, and it’s obvious to her now the foggy memory is nothing more than a trick of a feverish mind.

The queen is as cold and distant as always, though a small part of her protests her own claim. The eerily white scar on her side can attest to that much. She should have died, but she didn’t.

Another Huntsman might consider all that the queen has done for her and see the world through starry eyes, but Sara has never quite been like the other huntsman.

She is grateful to still be alive and home, but she won’t let foolish thoughts invade her mind.

*

“If it had been me or Tull,” Eric says one evening, “I don’t think she would have healed us.”

Sara stops rubbing her side. She doesn’t stiffen like reflex demands, instead making an effort to keep her muscles relaxed. “We could always test that theory, if you like.”

Eric laughs, his eyes crinkling up at the sides. He slings an arm around her shoulder as they continue walking. They’re headed to the dining hall for supper after a day of patrol. Though the land is finally at peace, patrols keep foolish bandits from disturbing it. 

The sudden declaration, however, causes Sara’s appetite to wane.

“Relax,” Eric continues, “I was only stating my opinion.”

“Well no one asked for your opinion, you oaf.”

“What did Eric do now?” Tull asks curiously as he catches up to them.

“Said something foolhardy,” Sara says before Eric can.

“Oh, so nothing new.” Tull grins and hooks his hands over his belt.

Eric clicks his tongue and slings his other arm around Tull. “You say foolhardy, I say I just live life from a different perspective.”

“A foolhardy one,” Sara insists, though her lips are curling up at the corners now.

“Be kind,” Tull hedges with his own small smile, “it’s no fault of Eric’s that he is who he is; his head has absorbed too many blows over the course of our years.”

“What did I ever to do to earn such fine friends as you?” Eric asks airily as he suddenly jerks both Sara and Tull closer.

Sara and Tull can only laugh as they proceed through the open door of the dining hall.

*

Freya paces in her chambers, restless but not knowing why. For years she’s lived life in a cool sort of detachment, the world around her filtered through the bitter cold of her magic.

She hasn’t been the same since she’d healed Sara, and Freya is certain that something is wrong.

Though she cares for her huntsmen, knows the name of every single one she’s lost, she’s never healed them for a reason. Magic always has repercussions.

For a moment she wishes she’d stayed under the tutelage of her sister, had allowed Ravenna to teach her the intricacies of their power.

She’d been too bitter and too angry; with Ravenna’s power, it would have been easy to prevent the death of Freya’s child. Ravenna had let it happen to prove a point. Freya isn’t certain she’ll ever be able to forgive her.

But, still...as the restless energy travels through her limbs and leaves her pacing long into the night, Freya can’t help but wish for her sister’s counsel.

As the first rays of morning sunlight trickle over the horizon, a raven lands on the windowsill to Freya’s chambers.

*

“Your land flourishes under your rule.” Ravenna’s voice is flat, and Freya wonders at the contrast in how their power works. Ravenna can only thrive by leeching life itself away, and Freya seems coldly driven to preserve it.

Freya tilts her head; Ravenna is every bit as beautiful as she remembers, but the melancholy in her sister is stronger than ever before. She doesn’t speak.

When Ravenna turns to face her, it’s with a smile. “I am glad to see you well, Sister.”

Freya’s jaw works. She still can’t speak.

Ravenna’s smile falters and again she turns away. Gone are the elaborate gowns of Freya’s memory. Instead, Ravenna is in a simple elegant sheath that shines like silver in the morning sun.

“What is it you need?” Ravenna asks in a firmer tone.

Freya rolls her tongue around in her mouth, knowing she can’t remain silent forever. “Guidance,” she finally manages in a grudging tone.

Ravenna makes a noncommittal noise and remains facing the sun. “Tell me what troubles you.”

The words come out stiffly at first, but soon they tumble from her lips without thought.

“And is that all that happened?” Ravenna asks once the trickle of words has stopped.

“No,” Freya admits after a pause. “I kissed her.”

Ravenna remains unmoving. “I see you have changed very little despite your power.”

Freya grits her teeth, her hands unconsciously curling into fists at her sides. “I have changed greatly.”

“No,” Ravenna says as she turns sharply on her heel. She gives Freya a sad smile. “You have not.” She sighs and begins a slow circuit of the room. “I have missed you, Freya. My world is a colder place without you in it.”

Ice forms around Freya’s hands at Ravenna’s choice in words. “Just tell me what’s wrong, and how I can fix it.”

Ravenna chuckles, but there is no humor in the sound. “There is no fixing this weakness, Freya. Our magics aren’t meant for restoring life; in order to heal, you have to be willing to share some of your own lifeforce.”

“You’re saying I’m bound to her?” Freya presses her hands tightly over her stomach. She hasn’t felt this afraid in a long time.

“I’m saying,” Ravenna walks closer and cups Freya’s cheek. She tilts Freya’s head upward so they’re looking each other in the eye. “That you were bound to her before you healed her. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

Ravenna cradles her face for some moments longer before finally pulling away. “I always wished for you to find your power, to become strong, even if it meant you would no longer need me. I regret that wish.”

Though overwhelmed by the implications of her own situation, Freya finds herself unable to keep from responding. “That is quite unlike you.”

“You were always my weakness,” Ravenna says softly. She turns away yet again. “I have seen my demise. I’m not sure who, but I am sure when. I know I am to blame for what you’ve lost, but if you could spare a little time for me, Freya, I would fulfill your every wish.”

“You’re going to die?” The question escapes Freya before she can help it. She sounds small, reminiscent of her much younger self that had always looked up to her older sister.

“Not for another decade,” Ravenna concedes with a smile as she half-turns back, “but a decade hardly seems long enough.”

Freya swallows and folds her hands together. “I have much to think about.”

Ravenna nods, and with a blink, she’s a raven again.

Freya watches her go with mixed feelings and a rush of very confusing thoughts.

*

Sara’s hands are jittery as she makes her way to the throne room. She hasn’t been summoned to the queen’s presence in weeks. She isn’t sure what to expect.

It seems as if she hasn’t gotten to look upon Freya at all in that time, though Sara knows that isn’t true. She’s caught glimpses of the queen from time to time around the castle, but it isn’t the same as now.

Sara bows but doesn’t look away; the feeling in her gut is that there’s point in pretending now. Freya wouldn’t have summoned her without cause. There’s an aching in her chest as she looks at Freya, but Sara can’t stop.

“You are to be relieved of the title of Huntsman,” come Freya’s clear words.

They seem to echo in the throne room and in Sara’s mind, and though she’s braced herself, a wave of shock ripples through her. “As you wish, my Queen,” she says as she finally looks away.

“I’ve had a horse prepared for you. You will find appropriate provisions available in its bags.”

Sara frowns and slowly raises her eyes to again look upon Freya. “A generous banishment.”

To her great surprise, Freya’s cheeks flush. “It is not banishment, Hunts--Sara. It is your freedom.”

There’s a lurching in Sara’s stomach. Her lips part in astonishment.

Freya begins pacing, her hands moving nervously over the beads on her gown. “You have been a prisoner here long enough.”

Sara catches sight of a familiar strip of leather hanging from the queen’s neck. Her heart begins pounding hard as she gathers her courage. “If this is my freedom,” she says as she begins ascending the few steps that lead up the dais, “then that means I can choose what I do next?”

It’s framed as a question, but Sara’s only an arm’s reach away from Freya as she finishes.

“Yes,” Freya answers in a low voice. Her eyes are slightly widened and her breathing is shaky.

It feels warm on Sara’s face as she draws even closer. “And when faced with my choice, what would you do?”

“I…” Freya’s words trail off as she closes her eyes.

As they kiss Sara realizes that it isn’t their first; she hadn’t imagined the heady feel of Freya’s lips pressed to her own after all.

“I am going to free all the huntsmen,” Freya murmurs after their third, fourth, and fifth kisses have left them breathless.

“Some will leave,” Sara replies, “but many will stay. This has become our home. Our family.”

“Will you help me, Sara?” The question sounds firm and almost formal, but Freya looks vulnerable as she asks it.

Sara tilts her head and grins. “As always, my Queen.”

Freya’s return smile is wide and full; Sara is stunned at the sight of it.

“I might wish to give _you_ a token in the future,” Freya says in a soft voice.

Sara feels warm, wondering at this side of Freya she’s only caught tiny glimpses of before. “I would gladly accept it.”

Freya laughs and the sound makes Sara’s skin tingle.

“Without knowing what it is, truly?” Freya’s eyes seem to dance with amusement.

“Yes,” comes Sara’s serious response.

“Oh.” Freya seems unable to look away, and then her eyes are drooping and Sara’s meeting her kiss halfway.

As they embrace, Sara can feel her mother’s old medallion pressing between the thin layers of their garments, warm and firm.


End file.
